CHAPTER 77
LEBANON
“IT’S A PIECE of crap,” Jim said as he looked at the Russian 4-wheel-drive, 4-door Lada. “This is an upgrade?” The Lada was a car most Russians drove out of necessity due to its low cost. However, it would be far better than the Yugo for the long drive ahead over the notoriously bad Lebanese roads. Some Lebanese joked that the pothole could have replaced the Cedar Tree as their national symbol.
Jim just shook his head at the vehicle most people compared to the American Pinto of old. “Well, it’s better than the Yugo we drove to get here. At least it’s not chuck full of bullet holes.”
Jim took the wheel. “We can each have a go,” he said laughing as he did. “I’ll be the first Guiana Pig.’
Nora and Dan smiled at Jim as they all piled in. A cloud of black smoke marked their departure.
The plan was to head west from the relatively mild weather of Mt. Elias and drive to the coastal climate of Lias. A distance of only 75 miles but one that would take many hours since they were to use the back roads as instructed by Silverman. He also provided them with a detailed map in case they were to lose their GPS signal.
They had been on the road for just 20 minutes when the Lada stalled, 10 miles from where they had departed. A loud wailing came from the general direction of the motor, and they rolled to a halt along a muddy road.
More familiar with weapons and computers than with cars, Jim tried what most do when equipment stops working — he turned off the engine and then tried to restart it, repeatedly — but the Lada whined and would not budge. “I’ll check the engine,” Jim said, popping the hood and stepping into the warm sun.
He came back almost immediately and announced, “There’s a damn wheel in the engine.” Dan went outside to check, and true enough the Lada’s spare tire was lodged firmly atop the motor.
Jim and Dan both looked at each other, not anticipating having to navigate around a tire to get to the engine. They had no clue. They prudently decided to leave the engine alone.
Jim closed the hood and jokingly tried gently kicking the car a few times. Ladas are notoriously easy to maintain; the saying is that all you need to fix a Lada is a good hammer. But their shoes proved ineffective.
Nora was now behind the wheel, fiddling with everything from the windshield wipers to the knob that reclines the seat.
Finally, by some miracle, the car sprang to life. “Aha!” Nora shouted. “It was this.” She pointed to the lever for the gearbox, which had somehow disengaged while they were driving. “It should be fine now,” she said, nudging the lever back into position. “Just watch the RMP gauge.”
Nora declined to relinquish the driver’s seat to Jim. “Since I’m already here,” she said smiling. She put the transmission into gear and they bounded off toward Lias.
Jim looked to Dan in the back seat. “This is a piece of crap,” he said, shaking his head.
The Lada was first built in 1980, and the design hadn’t changed much since. Lada’s recent upgrades included electric front windows, but features now commonplace in the West, like air bags, were still missing.
With its snub nose and what seemed like mile-apart headlights, the Lada resembled a dimwitted puppy, and the ride was about as comfortable as riding a wooden roller coaster. If you fill the fuel tank too quickly, gasoline sloshes out onto your shoes. Oil leaks are considered standard equipment.
Nora still behind the wheel, the Lada plowed along, its previous malady mostly forgotten. They passed many old structures—most still pot marked by the civil war—a war that still loomed large over the landscape. Soon enough, crumbling stonework gave way to a thick forest, spread across a series of river valleys. The occasional ox cart appeared on the uneven, single lane roads, slowing their progress even more until they managed to pass it.
At a roadside restaurant, a few dollars bought a lunch of fresh lamb, eggplant and hearth-baked bread. “The roads may suck and the country may be a bit backward but the food is fantastic,” said Jim to a series of nods from Nora and Dan.
Passing a small crossroads, a motorcycle carrying two males with light blue keffiyeh’s wrapped about their heads suddenly appeared alongside of their car, the passenger wildly waving an AK-47 before pointing it at Nora.
“I think we have company,” Jim said nonchalantly as he quickly assessed the situation. He then slowly turned to Dan in the back seat then to Nora as she tried to avoid the steady gaze of the motorcyclist.
“Looks to be Hezbollah,” replied Dan matter-of-factly. “I can tell by the color of their keffiyeh,” referring to their traditional Middle Eastern headdress. “So, how do you want to handle this?”
Jim fingered the 9mm that Nora had wisely purchased earlier, expertly removing its ammo clip to check its ammunition status. “Alright let’s provide them no indication other than we’re dimwitted tourists lost on a back road.” He turned to face Nora. “Now, in five seconds start to slow down,” he said, his tone steady. “Then when I say go, give her all she’s got. Let’s see if these bastards are ordinary thieves or if someone purposely put them on our trail.”
“I hope you know what the hell you are doing, James Dieter” Nora said in reply, using his full name as an indication she was more than just a bit nervous.
“You just have to have a little bit of faith in me,” said Jim, a wide smile gracing his face as he removed the guns safety. “Name the last time I ever lead you down a wrong path?”
Nora instinctively wanted to slap him across the face. “Do you really want me to answer that question?” she said in a sharp retort, thinking back to their time in Afghanistan. “I can name three times right off the top of my head. And two of those situations almost got me shot!”
Jim realized he was in a losing battle. “OK. My bad,” he said. “This isn’t the time for one of our world-class fights. Another time, another place; I’ll even let you pick the time and place.”
Nora’s lip curled at his response. “Your damn right it isn’t,” she replied. “And I will pick the time and place.”
It was Dan’s turn to speak from his position in the back seat. “I understand you two love birds have to discuss your issues at some time,” he said, his Irish brogue heavy, quickly glancing to the men on the motorcycle then back at Dan and Nora. “I just don’t think this is the proper time. The man beside us has a bit of an issue with the AK-47 he is carrying. And I think the issue is us.”
Nora and Jim both smiled at Dan’s analogy; him breaking the tension.
“Right you are my friend,” Jim said, turning to Nora. “Now, nod your head at them and point down the road like you are looking for a place to pull over.” The road on both sides of them led down to gullies for water run-off. But every mile or so contained a pull-off area capable of handling a single car for emergencies.
Nora performed as instructed. The passenger on the motorcycle shook his head in return, pointing the weapon first at Nora, then the car.
“Again,” said Dan, his tone calm. “Point again.”
Nora pointed down the road.
The motorcycle passenger had enough of the stalling, firing a quick burst through the cars back window.
The sound of the glass breaking initially terrified Nora, her ducking instinctively. “I don’t think they liked your response,” she yelled before regaining her composure.
Jim’s reaction was the same as Nora’s, ducking for cover until the shooting stopped.
Nora was a pro. She still had the car under control. Anyone else would have driven into a ditch. “I’m good,” she replied to his touch. “My nerves are little rattled but I’m okay. Check on Dan.”
Jim nodded before looking back at Dan, only to see him slumped against the door, his hand covering a wound to his shoulder. “Damn it,” Jim said aloud, his temper flaring. He slowly took several breaths to calm himself. He turned back to Dan. “Hold on. We are going to get you some help as soon as I can get rid of our little tour guides.”
Dan responded with a thum
bs up with his free hand. “I’m OK,” he said, the pain evident.
The passenger on the motorcycle smiled at Jim and Nora, evidently proud of his accomplishment. The motorcyclist then moved ahead of their car staying on the left-hand side, the passenger now aiming the AK-47 at the car once more, and in a long burst shot out its right front tire.
Nora expected as much, holding confidently onto the wheel as the car swerved back and forth as it slowed down but continued to roll forward. The motorcyclist doubled back to once again threaten them as he came alongside their car.
A mental switch flicked on as Jim once again took a deep breath. “When I count to three, I want you to duck,” he said, the anger in him controlled for the moment.
Nora nodded. “I trust you,” she said, before adding, “I always have.”
Jim started to count. “One, two, ….” Right before he hit three Nora ducked down, still holding the wheel as straight as she possibly could as Jim withdrew his 9mm and fired two shots. The first shot blasted out the driver’s side window and missed his target; the second went into the head of the motorcycle passenger who dropped off the back still clutching his weapon. Jim quickly followed-up with two additional shots into the head of the driver of the motorcycle, the driver slumping over as the motorcycle skidded to the road.
Nora quickly popped up and expertly guided the car to a stop in the middle of the empty road. The area surrounding them was devoid of anything but shrubs and small trees. Half a kilometer away looked to be an old monastery, two-stories high, and a small white flag with a small gold cross that sagged from its roof ramparts.
Jim quickly exited the car, him fingering his 9mm as he cautiously ran back to where the motorcycle passenger lay sprawled in the middle of the road. Pointing his weapon down at the man, he then used his foot to push his body over onto his stomach, kicking his weapon to one side. Satisfied the man was, indeed dead, he expertly rifled through the man’s pockets for papers or identification, finding none. He then pulled the body to the side of the road leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. At the edge of the road, he pushed the body down an embankment where, at its bottom, brush enveloped most of the body. He then jogged over to where the driver of the motorcycle lay, searching the man’s pockets before dragging first the bike then the driver, pushing them both over the embankment. Jim just stood there for a few seconds admiring his handy work. Just two more souls missing in Lebanon, he thought.
Jim looked up and down the desolate road. They had not passed another vehicle in over five kilometers. He was satisfied no one would find the bodies unless they happen to exit their vehicle and stand exactly where he now stood.
“Last time we’ll be bothered by those bastards,” Jim said aloud as he turned and walked over to where Nora was examining Dan’s wound in the backseat of their car.
“It going to take more than a bullet from Hezbollah to take down this bastard of an Irishmen,” Jim said to Nora.
Nora looked to Jim with worry in her eyes. “Jim, I think we’re going to need some expert medical care for Dan,” she said.
Dan waved her off. “Just a scratch, Jim,” he said. “I can make it to the coast before I need a doctor.”
Nora bit her lower lip. “It looks like the bullet missed any arteries in the arm but I can’t stop the bleeding.” she said as she ripped a long piece of cloth from her jacket, wrapping it around the wound. “I’ve seen wounds like this in Afghanistan. It’s a simple wound but he could still bleed out if we don’t get help soon.”
Jim pondered her words for a moment. They would have to miss their appointment with the Israelis and get Dan to a doctor. “Okay. Let’s get him to the Monastery,” Jim said, pointing down the road. “Most of the priests over here have basic medical training or are doctors outright due to their Civil War a few years back.”
Nora nodded. “You should know,” she said in a mocking voice. “You spent more than a few weeks over here during our time together.”
“Truce,” said Jim. “Let’s get Dan to the monastery and then we can fight it out.”
Jim grabbed Dan’s good an arm, helping Dan to his feet. “I can do it on my own,” Dan protested loudly, struggling to get up before the loss of blood made him lose his balance, Jim quickly resuming his position under his arm.
Approaching the Monastery on foot, its outward appearance resembled something along the lines of an impatient owner who keep randomly adding on wings and storerooms. Off to its right lay a terraced vegetable and flower garden. The main two-story sanctuary was begun in 1367 and was finished 24 years later. A large brass plaque announced in both French and English that the original building was built in the 1300’s by the Crusaders. Jim pointed to the plaque, “might be around the same time our car was built,” he said as they walked along the Monasteries single-story perimeter wall and through its open iron gate. “They must be expecting us,” Jim said, eliciting a chuckle from Dan. They proceeded along a brick path through a small herb garden and up to a massive oak door. A rope to its side acted as its door chime. Jim pulled down on it, inside, a brass bell clang twice in response.
After several minutes and no response, Jim impatiently pulled down on the rope a second time. After a minute or so they were rewarded with the sound of sandals scraping along stone floors. Then a series of iron bolts could be heard sliding across before the door opened to reveal a bearded Greek Orthodox Priest. Jim nodded in greeting before pointing to Dan’s wounds. “Do you speak English?” he inquired.
The Priest nodded. “Yes,” he replied, sounding as if insulted, “and four others languages I might add.” He instinctively grabbed Dan from the two of them. “It looks as though you are in dire need of a good doctor. Yes?”
“Are you a doctor?” Dan asked.
The priest nodded. “At least it says so on my diploma,” he said with a straight face. “But God is my first calling. I think you should come in before the Hezbollah makes a return.”
It was Jim’s turn now. “You mean you saw what occurred on the road?”
“Yes,” was his simple reply as if it were an everyday occurrence. “God works in mysterious ways,” replied the Priest as he walked Dan into the dining room. Inside, towering arches are caked with a patina of soot, mold and plain old dirt. Birds flew throughout the many rooms, their tweets echoing among the stones. The sparse walls held a series of religious murals and paintings. Heavily beamed ceilings, stone stairs, and small niches framed the room. “It was their particular time to go,” said the priest. “They tend to rob when they want to. We were waiting for one more of our brethren to join us. He was expected down the same road, so we were watching the road and witnessed your unfortunate incident.” He laid Dan down on the main dining table, carefully removing his shirt to expose the wound. “You are lucky,” he said to Dan. “Clear through the meat of the shoulder.” He turned to another priest who had entered the room having heard the commotion. “Please retrieve my medical bag from my room,” he said in Greek before turning back to Nora and Jim, resuming his English. “This is nothing,” waving his hand over Dan’s wounds. “I can have his wound stitched, dressed and bandaged within ½ hour. I can also give him a shot of antibiotics. This should be enough until you can get him to a real hospital so they can double-check my work.”
The priest returned with a worn black medical bag, opening it and removing several medical instruments. He then withdrew a bottle of alcohol, pouring its contents into a metal dish on the table, plunging each of the instruments into the dish before arranging them knowledgeably on a sterile cloth lining the table.
“Let’s get to work shall we?” said the first priest.
AFTER ½ AN HOUR HE was through. Dan was even able to stand up, albeit with the aid of Nora. He felt a little woozy but was as good as could be expected for having just been shot.
“Those Russian cars are crap,” said the priest who had gone to fetch the bag, making reference to the car they were driving. He then invited them in to join his group of Greek Orthodox pr
iests celebrating a holiday. “You’ve arrived at a blessed time,” Father Johan said, raising a glass of sweet sacramental wine. “Today is the first time in 20 years that priests in the region have gathered to sing.”
During the Lebanese civil war era, Christianity was harshly repressed, and now the priests were reclaiming a tradition that had almost been lost.
Walking into the main dining room they could see a group of ten or so had obviously been partying for a while.
“Let’s celebrate our new friends!” Father Alexei, a rotund and happy priest, said between toasts. The party in the monastery was winding down, but several of the priests wanted to keep going. “Vanilla ice, ice, ice, baby,” said one, revealing the extent of his English.
Father Timotheos, a young priest who blessed them repeatedly, mentioned he played a bass guitar and could even play Aerosmith’s “Crazy.”
“Have no worry. We will call our mechanic to fix your car. It will be done by the end of our celebrations,” said Father Alexei, smiling. “Two hours. Tops.”
Nora looked first to Dan then Jim. “I couldn’t make this up. Did we stumble into someone’s dream? Dan, are you OK with this?”
Dan nodded. “I feel fine,” he said. If it’s a party, don’t let me dampen the mood. My wound is nothing serious. Just give me one small glass of whisky and I’ll nurse it through the next two hours.”
The priest who performed the surgery held up his hand. “My son, you have lost a lot of blood. You will be drunk after just one glass.”
Dan smiled. “And your point is?” he said earnestly.
The priests, Nora, Jim and Dan toasted to one another’s religion, governments and when they ran out of toasts, to one’s life. “Crazy, drunk, priests!” another shouted, again the extent of his English.
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